


we can't die because we're young (at least that's what we heard in a song)

by lady_laverty



Series: O, winter [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Nuclear War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_laverty/pseuds/lady_laverty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something big is coming.  He can feel it. He has to be ready for it, whatever it is. He has to be ready to be able to make a break for it, back to the Massachusetts colonies. Back to his siblings, wherever they are.</p>
<p>He needs to be ready.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>(He’s not and never will be, he’s too far gone.)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	we can't die because we're young (at least that's what we heard in a song)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rectifyinflux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rectifyinflux/gifts).



> “At the temple there is a poem called "Loss" carved into the stone.  
>  It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out.  
>  You cannot read loss, only feel it.”   
>  ― Arthur Golden, _Memoirs of a Geisha_

 

 

He isn't really a rookie, but everyone refers to him as one. He’s only 20 or so, he doesn't know anymore, it’s been too long in the training camp that he doesn't know what day or year it is. But he knows he’s at least 20 because that is the last birthday he celebrated, with his younger brother and sister with a small cupcake that they managed to steal from one of the uptown bakeries because they’re not going to steal from the bakeries down town that help feed kids like them (orphans, destitute, _rats_ ) and that support middle and lower class families.

They’re not animals, as much as the up classers referred to them as. They do have manners; they weren't born and deposited on the street. They had families once.

(Boom, boom, the bombs fell and poof went their family, Maynard with his biting hate and bruising knuckles and their mother and father with their ignorance and willful blindness, _gone_. He can still find it in him to mourn for their lost brother and parents, they were family and you don’t just disappear family into the recesses of your memory. You remember them.)

The wind chills his to the bones as he continues his daily run (7.5 miles, only 2.5 left, _push your legs further, boy, you’re not here to slack off_ ), the pack of his training mates hundreds of yards behind him. They’re not his friends, he just likes to think they’d notice if he suddenly disappeared into one of the scientist’s labs one day. ( _If you’re no longer useful, you will be used to forward the good of the human race in this time of war_.) He hopes so. They’re only boys, some barely 18 years old, still lanky and lacking muscle tone. He’s the oldest one here. He leads his squadron (not that they wouldn't jump at the chance of replacing him, it’s only a matter of time, fickle as it is) through the rest of the run and the training regime (150 push ups, 20 crunches, 50 pull ups, _if anyone fails to this it is 10 lashes of the Tail_ ) and they are herded in for loyalty training.

The barcode on the back of his neck itches and burns as he watches the videos.

The videos of the bombs used to make him cry inside, like a little child, the mushroom cloud reminiscent of the welling up of his emotions.

Now he feels nothing. They've taken his emotions as well.

But it still affects some people, some of the youngers, who are only a few months into their training.

The guards crack them across with a baton and they’re soon quiet again, watching the videos with dull eyes like everyone else.

He wonders what his siblings are doing. Are they dead? He hopes they’re not. He hopes that his sacrifice to have them in months of food wasn't in vain. That at least they got to survive the months it would take for the food to diminish.

Their little hollow faces stare at him in his mind and he wants to claw them out. Being sad isn't going to help him get through training ( _it never ends_ ) and being sent out to the front lines.

But today is different. There’s something wrong. He can feel it in his bones, the ones they broke and broke and broke, in the gazes of the guards as they fidget instead of standing stock still, in the way the videos are so much harder to think through today, compared to any other days.

Something big is coming.  He can feel it. He has to be ready for it, whatever it is. He has to be ready to be able to make a break for it, back to the Massachusetts colonies. Back to his siblings, wherever they are.

He needs to be ready.

(He’s not and never will be, he’s too far gone.)

 

 

\- -

 

 

 Agent Phil Coulson hates the training camps that they find. Rich ass companies, people and religions thinking they can steal kids and train them to be their own personal army, just because they’re on the street with no one to protect them. It makes him want to be sick, but after so many times stumbling across mass graves of little boys, because that’s what they are, no matter if they’re past the age of 18 years old, dammit, deemed “unworthy” and “untrainable” because the life on the streets had left them with too many health conditions that the conditioning can’t get rid of.

(He’s had to put a bullet in some of them, the ones they find in the labs, with limbs missing and parts of their faces gone. They beg in little voices of children and it’s enough to never want to sleep again.)

But this training camp is different.

There’s something more _together_ about. As if it’s not just the whim of a rich bastard or a religion.

It smells of back room, under table government dealings.

He’ll enjoy taking this one down and helping free these boys. _Heartily._

When they get past the first layer of guards Phil _knows_ this a black ops government training facility. He’s only been to a few (two) and they’re ashes in the wind now but the aftermath on the children found in them would last forever.

Melinda flanks him as they break into the bunks and find something not expected.

Some of the boys are sitting with packs neatly on their beds, all crisp edges and sharp corners. The tallest stands the moment they break the door open, guns blazing. His crisp uniform fails to cover all the thick scars and slight tremors that work their way up his body. His hair is dark and flops over his face where it is longer in its buzz cut.

He’s barely 25 years old if Phil was to hazard a guess and the leader of the troop. They all fall in line behind him, like ducklings, peeking quick looks at them with dull eyes that spark with a minuscule amount of interest.

“Sir? What are our orders?” The tallest asks, continuing to stand at attention with his arms folded behind his back, his small shirt riding up slightly over his khakis showing more thick cords of scar tissue.

“Stand down, soldiers. We’re not here to order you around or hurt you. Sit down.” His bland voice makes an appearance and they do as he says. Following orders til the end, but if what he’s found in the other buildings has anything to say it’s extremely surprising they aren't trying to gut him with his own knife. 

They sit down in unison and it’s disconcerting in the least.

“Okay, we’re going to get you out of here. Where are you all from? You, where are you from?” He points at the tallest and the boy’s eyes flicker.

“Massachusetts, sir, from the colony of Plymouth.” His reply is bland and straight to the point. Phil nods and hums.

“Anyone else from Massachusetts here?” A few of the boys look at each other and then to the leader who nods at them and a few tentative hands go up, as if wondering if they’ll get punished for telling him where they’re from.

An explosion rattles the frame of the building and dust sprinkles from the roof and the leader’s hands clench and Phil thinks that that might be the only sign of panic he’s going to get from him so he starts herding the boys out.

“Come on! Come on! We’re going to have to hurry, my team is blowing the base and you’re coming with us!” Melinda steps back as he ushers the boys out with their back packs in tow.

None of them look back except for the leader. There’s something like regret on his face.

 

 

\- -

 

 

Grant is surprised (they all are) but prepared when the team break into the bunk house. He knew his gut was right but there was still fear among his troop because they thought it was a test and that they’d get sent to the scientists if they failed it.

It is a test, in a way, of whether or not they were still human enough to be able to pick for themselves and not rely on orders. He was surprised when the balding man asked them where they were from though, like he cared.

He wonders if this means he’ll be able to go back to his siblings but he doesn't think he can. He’s too far gone, had been for too long. He needs to stay with his troop until the ones that can be saved are given places to stay instead of being let off into the streets with nothing but the packs on their backs and the skills they gained from the camp.

He’s worried about what they’ll do to him. He doesn't want to go back to the streets but he doesn't want his siblings to continue to live on them if he can help it and if it means being locked up again he’d take it if it meant they’d be able to go to school and have somewhere safe to sleep and eat.

He’d do the same for his troop, no matter how much they might distrust him.

But the man doesn't do anything when they’re being loaded onto a plane like the ones he used to see on the news from before. Back when a land war in the Middle East was the biggest worry of America and not the inevitable nuclear war that would occur mere years down the track.

He wanted to be a soldier, he remembers, he wanted to protect people. Funny how he got to become a soldier but it’s not to protect people.

It’s to kill them.

He stares at his clean hands that have so much blood on them.

He’d been used by the camp as a way of setting an example.

He wasn't around when those days happen, he’s somewhere deep in his mind where his body is functioning and following orders but he’s not there. He’s with his siblings and even Maynard and his mother and father and they’re doing something, like at the beach or in the paddock behind the Smith’s house down the road from their rickety one storey home at the end of the street with the overgrown grass and the menacing well.

(He can still hear Dana’s screams and Maynard’s spit on his face as he hisses that _I‘ll throw you in as well if you help him_. He did help him, just in time, by the fraction of a second. He was beaten and hit by Maynard that night but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle because he _saved_ Dana.)

John Garrett is there on those days, looking interestedly at him with bright eyes full of something not nice. It makes him shudder and heave when they’re back at the bunks he scrubs and scrubs his body to get rid of that hungry gaze that he can feel even when he’s not there.

The blood runs red in the showers, swirling and mixing with the soap suds and down the drain.

He thinks his soul goes with it.

He stares at the man that rescued them that sits across from them in the plane, talking with the woman that came along with him.

He wonders what will happen to him when the others are sent for rehab, as the man said.

He should be put down like a dog for what he’s done, no matter what and how he was controlled.

Good people don’t kill people but he doesn't think he was ever good in the first place, no matter how hard he tried. He thinks Maynard got to him before he could be one and polluted him with his hate and anger.

He’s not a good person at all and doesn't _deserve_ to have a chance at a good life.

What he deserves is to be locked up for the rest of natural life.

 

 

\- -

 

 

The boy is staring at him with hooded eyes. Phil can’t help but sigh to Melinda about it because, dammit, this is not the time to start second guessing the integrity of his team and the reason behind him raiding and destroying the camp. The other boys just sit and mutter to themselves, disjointed language bursting into voices higher than the semi stage whispers they’re all using. He can’t help but think that if the leader was to decide that enough was enough and wanted them taken out they’d all jump at the chance. They’re all jittery, Trip included as he checks the health of the boys with Simmons who tuts and clicks her tongue at the scars littering even the youngest boy’s body.

They’re all only boys and it’s giving him a headache to try and think about what they did to them. The pounding in his head intensifies when it’s the leader’s turn to have his health check and it comes to a head when the boy takes off his shirt and his body is a mass of white, scars littering his torso and back, his barcode the figurative cherry on the top. Simmons’ hands clench the clipboard that she’s holding and Trip is furiously preparing needles to take blood work.

“Honey, what’s your name?” Simmons questions as she grips the pen instead of the clipboard this time, trying to keep a record of all the boys on this plane.

“Ward, Grant Douglas, serial number 38910107.” He replies listlessly, sitting on the examination table clad only in his khakis. His fingers twitch and grasp at the edge of the table and his back twitches near the barcode tattooed on his neck.

“Grant,” Simmons starts and he looks up at her, as if no one’s called him by his name for a long time. Phil supposes no one has, considering where he was. It was military as much as it was civilian experimentation so he wouldn't have gotten any personal contact. “You don’t have to go by the serial number anymore, okay? None of us here are expecting you to be what _they_ wanted you to be, alright?”

Grant looks down, over the edge of the table and nods a tiny bit. Phil doesn't think he’s convinced but at least he’s quiet and sedate compared to some of the kids that they find and liberate from these training camps. Grant’s positively an angel compared to some but they can’t be angry at them. It’s not their fault. Some of them hold onto the barcode and serial number like a lifeline in a storm. Coming back into society would be like drowning at sea, Phil thinks, with unknown variables and so many people. He would probably be the same way if it was him.

Some of them don’t let go at all, ever, and they’re the ones that they lock up because it’s for their own good and for the good of society as a whole.

Doesn't make it feel good though, protecting them from themselves by locking them up like they had been before.

They must see it as trading one hell hole for another.

He doesn't blame them.

 

 

 --

 

 

They give Grant food and drink and a bunk to sleep in with his troop at the base they finally touch down at. He knows the oldest of the troop that broke in is curious about him but he doesn't let it get to him. They’re always curious about him, what he could do, what he could survive, _can you do this, Grant, without screaming_ —

He flinches away from the thought and his head bangs against the frame of the bed. He freezes, the noise echoing through the hall. He holds his breath, waiting for the night guard to come and check on them and quiet the rowdy soldier.

He waits for Garrett to come and drag him out of his bed, fingers tight around his neck, hot breath on the side of his neck and something hard in Garrett’s pants—

He slams his head against the frame this time voluntarily to rid himself of the image. It makes him feel slimy, unclean and there’s something wrong, wrong, wrong—

He should have been able to say _no_ but he lost that ability when he stole to feed his siblings.

Garrett took and took and took and didn't give anything back but beatings and extra discipline that he didn't deserve.

_You need to get rid of that weakness in you_ , Garrett says harshly as Grant lies frozen on the bed and he zips his pants up. _I’m getting rid of it for you_.

He thinks he’d rather be weak.

 

 

\- -

 

 

Phil watches as the last of the troop are filtered off into cars taking them to their respective rehab facilities and sighs. He does that a lot now, sighing that is. It just wells up from him and he can’t stop it no matter how much he wants to.

The leader of the troop, Grant, is still sitting in the hall of the base.

He’s not letting go of this one, he’s certain the therapists wouldn't get anywhere with him.

He’s too far gone in their eyes but not Phil’s. He can get the kid to be whole at least, with the right therapy and positive mentoring. He doesn't have blind faith that it’s going to be easy. It’s going to be hard, so hard, to undo what the camps have done.

They have footage from the camps, cameras everywhere, in every room.

He knows what the man he used to call friend John Garrett did to Grant.

Skye showed him the footage, white faced and ashen, and his hands clench. He’s _so angry_.

But being angry at a dead man isn't going to do anything and he took great pride at being the one to put John Garrett down like the rabid, feral and disgusting dog that he is. He rid the world of one monster and it might only be one but at least he won’t ever be near Grant Ward ever again.

That’s a small consolation for what he had already done though.

Phil sighs, _again_ , and heads inside to where the boy is. He’s barely, and he doesn't even think he _is_ , Skye’s age, and she’s 26.

He’s nervous to have him interact with the rest of the team in case he thinks he’s being forced to follow every single thing they say, like orders that he doesn't have, and then do something to hurt himself or someone else.

Phil doesn't think he’s ready to be introduced to Skye though, no matter how seasoned she is, how much she’s seen over the last 6 years with his team. Skye is too much to handle even for him and he’s _him_.

He wants to make sure there are no hidden triggers deep in Grant’s mind that could hurt his team, first and foremost, and Grant himself.

He still has Grant’s file open, the picture of the lanky boy not even out of his teen years stark against the medical pictures of his body, depicting intentional breaks, fractures and bruises. All documented like a good doctor should if it weren't for the fact that the doctor was the one _prescribing them_.

The file also had managed to include a picture of the boy from Before, when he was only little, wide brown eyes solemn as the picture is taken documenting the bruises on his face and arms and legs.

Nothing’s changed; not really, Phil can still see bits of that little boy in the picture of the older Grant, with eyes flat and emotionless.

The nose is still crooked and the face still has bruises on it.

 

 

\- -

 

 

The doctor lady ( _I’m Jemma, you can call me Jemma, none of this ‘ma’am’ business, Grant_ ) gives him pills to take that make him feel good and give him more energy and he’s given meals three ( _three!_ ) times a day and it’s a lot to take in and sometimes it overwhelms him and he hides in his bunk until the Director ( _Grant, my name if Phil, you can call me Phil, I’m not going to discipline you or hurt you for not using my title_ ) comes and finds him and waits until Grant knows he’s not going to be hurt before smiling at him and asking him how his day is.

Today is one of those days.

He feels _wrong_ despite the pills that the doctor lady ( _Jemma, Grant, it’s Jemma_ ) gives him. His stomach is knotted and his hands shake.

He wonders if his body and mind think it’s back in the camps, where someone might hurt him for being this liberal with his routine, for having too much food, for not having a troop.

He wanders the base that he’s stationed at, taking in its greyscale walls and winding walk ways.

It feels like home but he’s never felt at home anywhere, not even that one storey house at the end of the street, not even in his mother’s arms, not anywhere.

He didn't think he had a home, to be honest.

But maybe this base could be home, if he does the right thing and the Director doesn't send him away.

Something inside him hopes he doesn't.

Something inside him begs and pleads for the Director to not send him away.

He wants to stay, _he wants to stay_.

He punches the greyscale wall to rid himself of those weak, weak thoughts, he feels his bones crack and his skin break.

_There’s a weakness inside you, boy, and it needs to be exorcised._

\- -

 

 

He wishes, like that little boy that he was so long ago and still is, _that someone loved him_.

 

 

\- -

 

 

_Quiet, quiet_ , his first troop leader whispers in his mind as he hides, _quiet or they’ll get you_.

_Quiet, quiet_ his mind whispers as he hides, safely away with his makeshift knife.

_Quiet or they’ll get you._

 

 

\- -

 

 

Phil is cursing as he walks steadily through the halls. He knew bringing in Strike Team Delta was too risky a move at this point but it needed to be done, they set their beacons off for extraction and he wasn't about to let his best strike team get _killed_ because Grant wasn't ready to meet them yet.

Too bad it might get someone else killed now, the brash and harshness of Clint’s demeanour triggering something in Grant and he’d taken off, and if he had a tail it’d be between his legs.

Natasha had nodded at him as a confused Clint stood in the wake of the outburst.

He knew he’d never find Grant unless he didn't want to be found but he couldn't help himself. He had to try.

It had only been a few days since his last outburst and he’d punched one of the concrete walls whilst in a state and broken the knuckles in his right hand.

God, Phil hoped he didn't do anything to himself this time.

Phil stumbles across a door that shouldn't be open and knows, just knows, that Grant is inside the room behind it.

He steps inside quietly and stops when he hears the faint breathing hasten. God he doesn't want to scare the kid into a goddamn panic attack, but it seems like he might be. He scrabbles around in the dark for somewhere to sit down.

“Kid, I know you’re in here. I know they scared you and I’m sorry about that but I couldn't leave them out there. You understand, don’t you? They’re my troop. I’d protect them with my life like I’d protect you with my life.” He whispers this to the darkness, unsure where exactly the kid was.

“I’ll leave you alone but I just wanted you to know that, okay? I wanted to know that you’re _wanted_ here and we’re not going to give you up easily. You have a place here.”

He sits for a little while before leaving.

 

 

\- -

 

 

Grant Ward cries openly for the first time in over a decade, snottily and ugly, in his hidey hole in the corner of a darkened room.

Someone wanted him. Someone actually wanted him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work for my friend that I spent days on. (Doesn't seem like it, but it's true.) I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
